Victims of Circumstance
by FieryGaze
Summary: A blind street urchin struggles to survive in the conquered Ba Sing Se.


The smell of dust. The soft, dying breeze playing over his face. The feel of the scratchy blanket he sat on, the embrace of his old, tattered clothes.

The emptiness of the boy's hands as he held them out, clasped together. His head was bowed and he couldn't remember how long he'd been sitting there. Too long. The sun was hot, he was getting sweaty. He could smell himself; it wasn't a pleasant odour. He would go out to the river soon and wash-but not yet. His hands were still empty.

The swish of clothing and the clop of shoes, nearby. He stiffened hopefully, extending his hands a little further. The footsteps speed up; their owner had ignored him. It happened often enough. Normally he would call out to people to beg from them, but he was tired and thirsty and his stomach felt compressed and ill. So he just sat, head bowed and hair hiding his face, with his hands out toward the road. Someone would take pity on him eventually. His meal depended on it.

Then, footsteps coming right toward him! His hands trembled a little. They were booted and heavy. Unfriendly footsteps. Perhaps he should leave.

He could hear their conversation, and could tell from the cadence that they were Fire Nation. He quickly put down his hands and leaned against the wall, pretending as if he didn't notice them. They were still coming toward him. Talking about how disgusting they found Ba Sing Se and the Earth Kingdom in general.

"Look at this filthy rat!" one of them called out, far too close for comfort. The boy scrambled to his feet, deciding to flee, but a strong hand closed over his forearm and dragged him over.

"Let me go!" he pleaded, pulling at the hand and trying to guess how many soldiers there were. No one would come to help him, he knew that much. There weren't many people in the world who would risk being thrown in Fire Nation prison for a blind street urchin, and to be honest, the boy didn't blame them. He didn't know much about politics, only what he heard on the street. Apparently Ba Sing Se was now property of the Fire Nation, and the Earth King had fled. The boy didn't understand any of it-it hadn't affected him until the soldiers had begun roaming the streets. They liked to kick him around, for fun, or to make a point.

"Dirt like this shouldn't be around at all." the soldier holding him told his friends, shaking the boy like a rag doll. "The entire city's like this. I hate this place."

"I haven't done anything," the boy pleaded. The soldier threw him to the ground and spat at him. The hard crash of the stone against his back, flecks of spittle on an upraised arm.

"Relax, Mao, it's just a kid." one of the other soldiers said offhandedly. Mao made a sort of sneering noise.

"There must be a law against filth like this clogging the streets." he growled. The boy flinched and braced himself, but the soldiers' footsteps continued on. He didn't move until he was sure they were gone. Then, he got to his feet and found his blanket again. He sat down and held out his hands for money.

"Hey! Hey you, are you okay?" At first he paid no attention to the voice, thinking it was addressing someone else. But then there were small, delicate footsteps coming right towards him, stopping inches away. "Excuse me?"

The boy went to speak, but his throat was dry enough so that only a rasping whisper came out. He coughed. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"You look terrible! I can't believe the soldiers did that to you. They're terrible people, all of them." The voice was young, female. It had an almost bell-like quality to it, high and lilting. He liked to listen to this girl talk, whoever she was. He lowered his hands.

"They've done worse." The boy told her. "It's not so bad."

"It's terrible and they should be ashamed." the girl continued, undeterred. "What's your name? I should take you back to my grandfather. We could clean you up."

"Um, Kuzin." the boy told her, surprised. "That's my name. The… the soldiers won't be happy if you help me."

"Who cares what they think!" the girl insisted, taking hold of his wrist. The soft touch of her hand was unexpected. "Come on, let's get you out of here!"

The boy hesitated. He still hadn't gathered enough money for a meal. "Who… who are you, anyways?"

"My name's Jidei." there was a smile in her voice. "Poor thing, you look so surprised! Look, I know what my grandfather's going to say once I bring you to him. He'll say, 'you're too young to be out on the streets!' You can even eat with us, I'm sure it's okay."

"T-thank you…" the boy stammered, reaching back and gathering his dusty blanket. "Where…?"

"Come on, I'll bring you." A pull at his wrist, and then, they were running through the streets. At first Kuzin tried to hang back, but after awhile he found it was easy to trust Jidei, and let her guide them through the crowds. The feel of people, everywhere, the sound of voices and rustling clothes. The smell of a vegetable cart they whisked past, the feel of the wind rushing by.

The boy lost his sense of direction by the time they reached their destination. He was pretty sure they were somewhere south of the market, an area that he'd never visited before. A place where people lived, he supposed. He'd never really gotten to know this city in the few months he'd been around.

"Grandfather!" the girl called out.

"One moment, Jidei, dear…" there was a coarse, weathered voice speaking not too far away. The boy tilted his head and listened, trying to gain clues about Jidei's grandfather.

He was coming toward them now, with a lopsided step that spoke of bad joints. But he didn't walk much like an old man would, he was far too confident. His strides were long and sure.

"Who's this?" Jidei's grandfather asked. The boy turned his face in the grandfather's direction, as he'd once been taught was polite.

"His name is Kuzin!" Jidei jumped in before the boy could introduce himself. "Those Fire Nation men were pushing him around, when he was just sitting there asking for money."

A brief silence. "You're a beggar, boy?"

"Yes… I guess so…" All the times he'd been called cruel names, or kicked around, or spat on by passers-by-not always Fire Nation, there were such people in all nations-his position had never struck him as something to be ashamed of. It was who he was and how things had turned out, there was nothing he could do to change it. But something in the way the grandfather spoke of it-_you're a beggar, boy?_-made his position seem shameful. For some reason, those four words had pierced into him deeper than any of the scorn that had preceded it. The boy hung is head.

"…Jidei, take him inside and help him clean up. Dinner will be ready soon." the grandfather said, his tone unreadable. Jidei, completely unfazed, pulled the boy into some sort of dwelling and closed the door behind them.

"Sit," Jidei commanded. The boy sat, and found a cushion to do so on. Jidei got up and left, then returned a moment later with something sloshing.

"Here, it's some water. Wash off your face and hands, you look awful." The boy was suddenly self-conscious. Did he really look that dirty to her? He could never be sure. Jidei also offered him a cloth, and the boy got to work scrubbing every part of him that wasn't clothed. He made sure to get his face, and smoothed back his hair with a dripping hand. Someone had once done that to him to make him look more presentable. Trying to remember who it was gave him a headache, so he decided not to.

"Well! You don't look half bad once you've cleaned up a bit." The boy turned toward the voice-it was the grandfather again.

"Silly, you missed some spots." Jidei said, taking the cloth from him and forcibly scrubbing at certain spots on his face and arms. The boy sat still, feeling sort of shell-shocked, as she finished up and pronounced him clean.

"Dinner," the grandfather said. The enticing scent of some sort of soup, rich and tempting. The boy stayed where he was. He didn't know where the walls were or anything in this place. He felt embarrassed again, and tried to the remember the last time he had been embarrassed about anything. His memory was too spotty.

The grandfather walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "This way." he said, and his footsteps headed towards the smell of the soup. The boy followed his path gratefully. He wasn't sure if Jidei realized he was blind, but at least the grandfather was being understanding.

He sat down and located the steaming bowl of soup and noodles in front of him. At first he tried to eat politely, but his hunger made him pick up the bowl and slurp down the meal. It was delicious, and more than he had eaten for a long time. Longer than he could remember.

No one else at the table had said anything. "Sorry," the boy apologized for his manners, placing his bowl back on the table. Someone would have berated him for eating so carelessly, once. Some missing memory.

There was a shift of clothing, the sound people make when they shake their heads. "Where is your family, Kuzin?" the grandfather asked.

The boy thought for a moment. "Don't have one."

"No one at all!" that was Jidei again, and the clatter of her chopsticks as they fell out of her fingers. The sound of surprise.

"No." The boy replied. The grandfather gave him some more noodles and the boy ate them, using the chopsticks this time.

Long ago, or maybe not so long ago, they had been travelling. He remembered that rural sort of city they'd passed through, spread out on the hills. He'd liked the smell of that place. Full of life and people, but with a pure mountain wind that filled the streets on breezy days. He'd have liked to stay there, but they had to move on. They were always moving on.

His brother snuck out one night. Kuzin remembered, because he was the only one who had noticed. He didn't tell anyone, though, because he figured his brother could do whatever he wanted, seeing as he was pretty much a man now. That's what he said all the time, anyways, and Kuzin believed him.

The next night, his brother took Kuzin along when he snuck out. They went to a large underground stadium, absolutely reverberating with life and excitement. There was a fight going on in the middle. His brother was very excited, shouting and cheering, making bets with his neighbours. Kuzin had enjoyed it too. He couldn't see the fight but he could both hear and feel it, feel it through the soles of his feet.

He would remember his favourite fighter for the rest of his life. Her stage name was the Blind Bandit, and she was just a young girl, with a tiny voice that didn't carry very well throughout the stadium. But the boy was good at listening. He liked to hear her talk with such confidence. "Is she really blind?" he'd asked his brother, feeling strangely hopeful.

"Yeah, she is," his brother had replied. "And the best fighter I ever seen! Just like you, huh?"

"Just like me," the boy repeated. It was nice to think that even though the Blind Bandit couldn't see, she was the best fighter who contended in the tournament. In the future, he would often think of her, to keep himself strong. If the Blind Bandit could beat the Boulder in a record time of ten seconds, then the boy should be able to just keep living for another day. It wasn't so difficult of a task, in comparison. To keep living.

The next day he was back at his spot, holding out his hands. He couldn't really remember how he'd gotten there, though. He thought that he might have run away from them, the girl and the old man, because they made him feel ashamed of who he was. There was something about them, how pure they were, that made him feel dirty and unworthy in comparison. Just a filthy, blind street rat asking for money. They didn't want him around.

Footsteps, booted ones. The boy quickly put down his hands and leaned against the wall, pretending to be asleep. Maybe they would pass him by, today.

"Get up." This time the voice was cruelly professional, there was no mocking tone. The boy hesitated, and then a hand clamped down on his upper arm and pulled him to his feet.

To his surprise, the soldier began to walk away, dragging the boy along with him. "Where are we going?" the boy asked, starting to get scared. Another emotion he hadn't felt in awhile, not in any capacity.

The soldier didn't answer. The boy was dragged through all the streets, crisscrossing and doubling around until he was completely lost. He was really beginning to panic now, his heart pounding and his stomach twisting in on itself, because the whole time the soldier did not even say a word. This had never happened before.

They stopped for a brief moment. Words were exchanged. Then the boy was taken up some stairs, and he felt the air change as he was taken into some kind of building. His escort talked some more with someone else, then took the boy further into the building. It smelled of people, grime, and just a bit like coal.

Suddenly the boy was shoved forward. He flailed his arms in a desperate attempt to keep upright, but failed and smashed his knees into a metal floor.

The soldier said nothing. There was a crash as a door of some sort was closed, and then the man's footsteps left back the way they had come. Disoriented, the boy got to his feet. He shakily inched in the direction of the door, found that it was metal and barred.

He felt around everywhere else. He was in a small metal room, some kind of cell. The thought was abjectly terrifying. He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. The feel of the metal, cold and rough, on his back. He put his head in his hands and sat there for a long time.

He didn't think about anything-just drifted off in that way of his. Time hiccupped, and then hours had passed, or maybe a day or two. Noises roused him from his recluse. He turned his head, listening.

The steady clopping of Fire Nation boots on the floor. The door opened, and the soldier stepped inside. The boy stayed where he was, huddled against the wall, hugging his knees to his chin.

"Come here," the soldier commanded, impersonally. The boy didn't move; he couldn't.

The soldier came over and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to his feet. The boy didn't react. He was taken outside the cell, back down the hall, into the front room where he could just feel a hint of outside air.

"This him?" the soldier said.

A pause, space for a nod or hand gesture.

"Payment up front, then. Don't waste my time."

Rustling fabrics, and then a solid _chink_ like a sack of coins. The boy was released, but he didn't move, assuming the soldier would grab him again.

The soldier walked closer toward the other person, then picked up the coins and began to sort through them. He placed them down with precision, counting each one carefully.

"Looks good. Get out of here." The soldier gathered up the coins and left. The boy just stood there, not knowing or caring what was going on. His life had just ended for the second time, he didn't have it in him to wonder what his third would be like. Or if he even had three lives at all and he'd really died the first time, and this was just some kind of echo. Those thoughts were always churning but they were locked away deep inside.

"Come here, boy." The voice is familiar. A hand came down, gently, on his shoulder, steering him toward the door. He could feel the city air coming in from there.

"You'll stay with us now, all right?" Jidei's grandfather said. "You won't have to beg anymore. It's no life for a kid, you wouldn't have lasted much longer."

The boy nodded. He's not sure how to react anymore.

"You'll get better, okay? You'll see. You're sick right now, Kuzin, I can tell. I don't know what happened to you and our family. Jidei and me are your family now. Would you like to live with us?"

The question made him think in a way he hadn't for a long time. Someone was asking him what _he_ wanted? He had some control over his life? He could choose?

The revelation left him at a loss for words. He didn't reply until they were far from that building, heading into familiar territory. It had actually exhausted him to think of an answer. He felt hollow and tired, but… different, changed.

"Yeah. I'd like that," he murmured. The sound of the people around them blended, and he let it, concentrating only on the hand that was carefully guiding him through the busy street.


End file.
